


feet over head

by visiblemarket



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Exhibitionism, Foot Jobs, I wrote it, M/M, PWP, ish, it happened, look i don't even know what to say about this, resolution of implied sexual tension, that exactly, that's all i have to say for myself, yes - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-21
Updated: 2013-11-21
Packaged: 2018-01-02 06:01:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1053349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/visiblemarket/pseuds/visiblemarket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Did you really have to chase me so hard, sir?"</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	feet over head

**Author's Note:**

  * For [totalnerdatheart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/totalnerdatheart/gifts).



> So this was originally saved as "why this". I think the current title is an improvement, except for in all the ways it's not.

"Did you really have to chase me so hard, sir?"

Coulson barely even smirked at him; one corner of his mouth twitched, but that was fucking it. The rest of him radiated a distinct "I told you so, Barton" vibe, which Clint was not unfamiliar with, though, in his defense, Coulson had _not_ told him he'd be that vigorous in his pursuit across the many rooftops of Rome, or that convincing. There were moments there where he’d genuinely thought his handler was about to shoot him. Maybe some suppressed issues there, actually. Clint wasn't going to dwell on it.

"Seriously, how are your feet not killing you?" Clint said, rubbing his own.

"Good shoes," was all Coulson had to say. Clint felt that was kind of bullshit: his combat boots might not have been designed for the distance, speed, and terrain he'd recently subjected them to, but they had to be better than Coulson's shiny black dress shoes.

"Yeah, okay," Clint groused, and sighed. This stop at a café was supposed to be some kind of reward for having successfully infiltrated the Illuminati-obsessed ring of art thieves who'd been building some kind of doomsday device in the goddamn catacombs, and having sweet-talked them into letting him see said device (though only after a thrilling escape from the "Interpol Agent" who'd been hot on their trail for the past few weeks). And Clint liked tiny coffee and brittle cookies as much as the next guy (or would, if the next guy wasn't Coulson, who had a strange affinity for any and all local foods), but there was only so much of them he could take while just watching his handler get a head start on the paperwork. 

"Order something else," said Coulson, who apparently didn't even have to look up to be able to read Clint's mind. "On me." 

"I don't _want_ to order something else," Clint said, trying not to sound like a whiny kid, and sucking at it. At least he didn't pout.

Coulson sighed. "We have to wait for them to dismantle the device before we leave, Barton. You know that."

And he did. Really, he did know that. But his legs were starting to cramp up and his feet were sore and Coulson was being kind of a dick. Clint could, and would, be a full-on dick right back.

He stretched his legs out under the wrought-iron table, propping his left heel on the scrap of chair seat between Coulson's legs, and crossing his right foot over it. Coulson lifted his head and gave him an "Oh _really_?" look, which Clint returned with his most innocent smile while brushing the outside of his foot against the inside of Coulson's thigh. 

Coulson went very, very still, which was weird, because he hadn't exactly been moving much before, but it was now noticeable how much he was trying to keep still. Usually, with Coulson, it'd be effortless.

Truth be told, Clint'd kind of been expecting Coulson to push him off by now, if not immediately after he'd thrust his feet onto the man’s lap. Sure, Coulson's hands were kind of occupied at the moment, with the pen he was using to make notes in one and a photocopy of a 16th century map of the city in the other, but there was no way he couldn't have (shouldn't have, wouldn’t have) put those down in order to get Clint the hell out of his personal space and reinforce those boundaries he loved to remind Clint about.

Of course, Clint could have pulled back anytime, too: no doubt about it, having your feet in the lap of your uptight, hard-ass of an SO was probably a little bit weird. But he felt a quick little tremor in Coulson's thigh, and could not miss the way the map in his hand fluttered and crackled a little where his grip on it tightened. 

Clint could be kind of an idiot, he might be misreading all kinds of signals here, but there was only one way to make sure, and that was to stroke his instep along Coulson's thigh again, slower, but with more pressure. 

Coulson wouldn't do anything as obvious as jump, but his eyes did flicker up. Clint wasn't sure what he was expecting, but the wary, impatient challenge lighting them up wasn't it. He met it easily though, stared him down, or tried to: Phil Fucking Coulson was probably not going to be cowed by the mouthy sniper currently rubbing his foot along the soft seam of his pants.

He might, though, react to Clint slouching down further in his chair, getting himself close enough to brush his toes a little further up, which was exactly what Clint did. He gripped the arms of the heavy metal chair he was sitting in and reached out, running his toes up along Coulson's thigh and across the growing, warm bulge that must've been tenting his perfect, charcoal-grey pants. 

Clint gasped. He wasn't exactly surprised but he was, never would've figured Coulson as type to enjoy this kind of thing, especially not out in public, which they technically were. Sure, it was dark, and sure, no one was looking at them (the day Clint, and probably Coulson, wasn't able to tell if they were being watched in a public place was the day they were both well and truly screwed). But more than that, he was surprised at how much _he_ was kind of into it, pressing the sole of his foot against Coulson's straining erection, and stroking at it the best he could.

It was weird. It was _definitely_ weird, but then Coulson spread his legs and Clint couldn't even consider stopping, just squirmed down a little further, till his ass was half-hanging off his chair and he could mold the arch of his foot over Coulson's hard-on. 

Coulson hadn't made a sound yet, but his lips parted, just barely, and he licked them, quick and uncalculated. It was a glaringly obvious tell to anyone who had spent as much time watching him as Clint had. 

Clint ducked his head and stroked at him, slow and dragging like he would if he'd been using his hand, and then jerked his head up at the sound of something clattering. Coulson had dropped his pen. _He'd made Coulson drop his pen._ Clint had seen Coulson hang onto all manner of stationery while shooting down tentacled neo-Nazis and enemies of equivalent or greater value, but about five seconds of a footjob had him so hot and bothered that he was running a hand through his hair and gripping the table so tightly his knuckles were going white. 

It was fucking amazing, was what it was, and Clint was really glad to keep doing it. He actually kinda wished he'd taken his socks off as well, just to be able to feel the rough friction of Coulson's suit against his skin, the inevitable bloom of wet warmth over the sole of his foot when Coulson came. _Holy shit_ , Clint thought, a little hysterically, _I'm going to make Coulson come in his pants_.

Distantly, distractedly, he noticed Coulson drop his hand under the table, and almost jolted when he felt the soft brush of fingers over his other ankle. He let out a slow, careful breath and nodded, though he wasn't sure if Coulson was even paying attention to him. He seemed to be, because his touch steadied, fingers slipping up under the cuff of Clint's jeans. 

It shouldn't've done anything for him. It was one thing to enjoy watching Coulson get off on whatever kind of foot thing he was into, but discovering that his _own fucking ankle_ could become an erogenous zone just because Coulson was tracing his thumb over it was total bullshit. 

He was going to go with it, though. Of course he was, and the minute Coulson came Clint was going to swing his chair over and get a proper handjob out of him because _fuck_ , the man's hands were amazing, and his mouth was probably not bad either. 

And it was right around then, actually, that the earth began to move. 

Not in the good way, in the way of pebbles bouncing off the cobblestones and a deep rumbling groan coming from beneath the earth, generally, but mostly from the direction of the catacombs. 

Clint jerked his head up and stared at Coulson with wide eyes. Coulson stared back at him, vaguely horrified and more than a little embarrassed, before straightening up and slipping on the Agent Coulson mask. 

" _Go_ ," he said, authoritative and calm, and Clint did, snapping to attention like the good little soldier he’d always secretly wanted Coulson to think he was. He swung his legs back, shoved his feet into his half-laced boots, and jumped up, only to half-trip over the leg of his chair. He didn't fall over, but it was a close thing, and it left him in the awesome position of trying to run, lace up his boots, and draw his weapon, all at the same time. 

He didn't fall on his ass, at least. He was, after all, a goddamn professional.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this imagineyourotp prompt](http://morethanonepage.tumblr.com/post/67581417801/imagineyourotp-imagine-your-otp-is-sitting), and by a discussion with [totalnerdatheart](http://totalnerdatheart.tumblr.com/). So. Thanks for that.
> 
> "Did you really have to chase me so hard?" is my misquoting of a line from _Charade_ , the context of which actually does lead to a foot rub, but uh...not this kind. 
> 
> ( ~~sequel? I'm thinking maybe? though I'd have no idea what to do with it? ugh I'm the worst.~~ )


End file.
